


nameless, faceless.

by Ashtrees



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Drug Abuse, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashtrees/pseuds/Ashtrees
Summary: These days, he starts to think he might not be Tobias, but he's not much of a Spencer, either.Newly exonerated, Spencer Reid struggles.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	nameless, faceless.

Spencer Reid is an excellent shot. A perfect shot. He can take apart and put together his service weapon with his eyes closed. He’s tried, and succeeded. Thrice, because once might be a fluke, twice might be a freak coincidence, but the third success counts as scientific proof. 

Years ago, Aaron Hotchner tried, unsuccessfully, to help him pass his firearms qualification. Adrenaline was his friend that day. He could have succumbed to the agony of the cobweb-covered boxes in his head creaking open, bit by bit, every time Hotch’s foot knocked the air out of his lungs; or, he could have used his brain and his training and finally done something that would prove people wrong about him. He chose the latter. 

One shot, right through Philip Dowd’s skull. In the solemn aftermath of his first kill, Hotch was proud of him. He was proud of himself. That night he went home and allowed the pain in his ribs to take control. It felt good. It felt like a victory. 

Of course, he knew he didn’t really deserve to wield the weapon. Once was a fluke. Which is why he kept going back to the shooting range every chance he got, until he finally felt a little less like a child, however prodigious, playing dress-up in an FBI vest. 

Hotch would be proud of him if he saw the perfect score. But he hasn’t spoken to Hotch in years. The number in his phone has long since gone inactive, and no matter how bad he is at reading social cues, he can hear Hotch’s unspoken request for a clean break loud and clear. He deletes the number. 

* * *

JJ is careful around him, these days. She’s always been protective of him, but these days she knows he can take care of himself. It’s more like she’s circling him slowly, trying to put her finger on what exactly has made him so different, so maybe she can zoom in on that and fix it and then everything will be back to normal again. She can wave a wand and undo what three months of prison and the last several of horrors have slowly done to him. He’ll be her nerdy best friend Spencer who once had a desperate crush on her and is still half in love with her but has never been a real prospect. Spencer. Predictable, quirky Spencer. 

He doesn’t quite know how to tell her she’s not going to get her wish, though, so he just ignores her heavy stares pricking his neck when he isn’t looking her way. He ignores the urge to tell her to stop looking so tormented when he’s the one who’s been to hell and back. He knows it isn’t fair, and no matter how off-kilter he feels, he knows he doesn’t want to hurt her. 

At the moment he is ignoring her hushed conversation with Will in the kitchen while he sits cross-legged on the floor and helps Henry with his science project. It’s very clear she’s talking about him because he can hear her whisper his name every now and then, and her husband seems to be trying to comfort her. Will has been pleasant to be around since he got out; he usually just engages him in mundane conversation that surprises him with how calming it is. At the very most, he might offer him a word of support that never feels condescending, and he’s immensely grateful in a way he suspects will always remain unspoken between them. 

“Uncle Spencer, look!” 

The little primitive robot is moving around successfully, and Henry looks jubilant. He also looks at Spencer with unbridled adoration, and absolutely no one but his godson has ever looked at him like that. It makes something swell inside him and he has to clear his throat. 

“Whoa! You did it, Henry. You’re a genius!” he praises with a grin that stretches from ear to ear, picking the boy up and resting him on his shoulders. JJ and Will are watching fondly, and as he meets their eyes, he is relieved that JJ, for once, doesn’t seem to be worried. Why would she be? Right now, he doesn’t feel broken. He just feels happy and loved, and he wishes he can make this moment last forever.

* * *

He’s in a cement box and the walls are slate grey and his mind is trapped. There is silence all around him and he feels like he can choke on it. He’s on his back and trying to sleep but his eyes won’t close. His hairs stand permanently on end and there’s a rapid thumping that he decides must be his racing heart. The thumping grows louder and louder; there’s a clang and suddenly he isn’t alone in the grey box anymore. Suddenly there is a flash of too-bright light and several nondescript faces in there with him and the only thing he knows for sure is that they want to hurt him. 

There are hands around his chest and hands around his legs and hands twisting his arms behind him and they’re all tightening like a vice and the air is running out but then his eyes adjust to the light and it’s Calvin Shaw in front of him and he looks  _ powerful,  _ and he knows he has to get away, or he’s going to  _ die  _ in here, he’s going to die a  _ murderer,  _ and he fights with all his might and his lungs are spilling out hoarse helpless screams, but then there’s cool metal in his hands and something warm and awful splashes onto his face.

He cannot afford to stop for a second or he will be done for, so he keeps going, he swings wildly without knowing what he’s doing, over and over and over until the only noises in the box are his own. Shaw is on the ground and so is everyone else and he’s sweating but when he wipes it away and licks his lips it tastes like copper. He jolts, there’s another clang, and he looks down to see a bloody knife has seemingly fallen from his hand. No, no, no, he thinks, he was only fighting to be able to breathe, he didn’t mean to-

_ But you did,  _ the walls seem to chant and then the walls aren’t walls at all, they’re glimpses of Emily’s deep brown eyes and JJ’s sunshine smile and Rossi’s paternal gaze and Morgan’s brotherly smack on his back, except now they’re all betrayed and afraid and their guns are trained on him, on _ him,  _ on  _ Spencer,  _ and he keeps telling them he didn’t do it, he swears he didn’t but Nadie Ramos is on the ground and she’s so dead and cold and bloody and the guns are taking aim and-

And then he’s sitting ramrod straight in his bed, sweating profusely, panting and throwing the blankets to the floor. The clock on his nightstand innocuously tells him it is two forty-three a.m. He’s in his apartment. The walls are moss green, there are books everywhere; he tries to calm the pounding in his chest. 

He waits for the relief to fill him and lull him back to a restless sleep. It never comes. Instead, all that fills him is shame.

Shame makes him feel small—young, younger than he is, and strips him of the precious shreds of confidence he’s managed to drape over a scared little boy tied to a flag post. There’s bile crawling up his throat and he needs to escape.

What happens next is an out-of-body experience. One moment, he’s sitting on the bed and feeling fourteen. The next, he’s watching himself walk over to the nightstand with purpose and open the locked drawer. Then, there’s a needle sticking out of his arm and he’s on the floor and there’s sunlight filtering in through the curtains. 

The reality of what he’s just done hits him all at once. The shame follows immediately after. Then comes the one he can never quite seem to shake. 

Self-loathing has been his dogged pursuer all these years, always carefully kept at the peripheries by Gideon’s watchful eye or Hotch’s uncharacteristic words of affection or Morgan’s warm arm slung over his shoulders; this time, he’s all alone. And right now, it is consuming him.

* * *

Garcia is more astute than people give her credit for. This much, he’s always known. But he isn’t particularly fond of having her turn that perceptive gaze onto him with laser focus. 

Emily and Rossi have decided to give him space, and his further retreat into himself after the night he slipped doesn’t seem to clue them in to anything he’d rather they never knew. Matt, as a rule, doesn’t pry and doesn’t meddle, and if Spencer is being honest, he really wishes the rest of his team would follow his example. Tara is quiet and observant and besides all that, she has seen him drug-addled and half-confessing to murder before—she might sense that he’s hiding something but he doubts she will go as far as confronting him; they don’t really talk about things. Luke, on the other hand, is definitely the type to meddle, but he also seems to look up to Spencer a bit, seeming impressed not just with his intellect but also with his track record at the FBI. It’s a nice change.

What he doesn’t expect is for Garcia to keep her keen eye trained on him behind all the emotional speeches and hugs. He definitely doesn’t expect her to show up at his door the day after they’ve returned from a case in Colorado, looking like she means business. He can feel a headache coming on just at the sight of the defiant tilt of her chin.

“Garcia, what are you doing here?” He lets a bit of his annoyance seep into his tone. It’s eleven at night and they’ve been swamped with cases and he could really use this time alone. There’s a small voice in his head taunting  _ for what,  _ but he ruthlessly squashes it down.

“Oh, don’t start that with me, boy wonder,” she warns, ignoring his protests as she pushes past him into the apartment. Sighing internally, he shuts the door and rests his forehead against it for a second.  _ Please let this be over quickly.  _

Garcia whirls on her heel to face him again, pointing an accusatory finger at him. 

“ _ You  _ have been hiding something, mister,” she begins dramatically, and his heart stops. 

“You’re not sleeping, Reid! And you’ve avoided coming out with us every single time we’ve asked. You know how many times we’ve asked since you’ve been back, Reid? Twenty-three!”

She’s pacing now, seeming troubled, and yet he’s the one who feels like a cornered animal. 

“You won’t talk to JJ, you won’t talk to Emily, and you won’t talk to me!” Now her eyes are wide and pleading and he startles himself with how little he cares about what she’s feeling right now. He just wants her to  _ leave _ so he can be alone again.

“You’re not even seeing your therapist!” 

“I  _ saw  _ my therapist and I got cleared for duty,” he retorts, narrowing his eyes. 

“Well, duh. I know that. I meant the therapist JJ found you after that? The one outside the bureau so you wouldn’t get all concerned about the FBI stealing your emotional secrets?” Her accompanying eyeroll says  _ aren’t you supposed to be a genius?  _ His hackles raise.

“How do  _ you _ know I’m not seeing that therapist?” His tone is clipped, and of course he knows how she knows. He just wants to see if she’ll admit it.

She falters, but only for a second. “How do I know everything? Do you want me to explain the internet to you?”

“I’m asking  _ why  _ you know.”

“Because we’re all worried about you!”

“So you decided to pry into my personal life?”

“Well what else are we supposed to do if you won’t  _ tell us anything?!” _

He wants to lash out at her. He wants to yell about boundaries and that this is his business, not hers or JJ’s or Emily’s, and they should just mind their own. He wants to demand to know why he has to constantly keep proving himself, after all these years. But he sees how that will play out. 

Garcia will try to protest for a while, but as his words pierce through her defences, her eyes will shine with hurt and betrayal, and he’ll be too proud to try to fix it. He won’t hear from her for a few days, and then he will hear from them all at once. They’ll confront him and they’ll be so painfully earnest about it, and Emily will likely “suggest” that he take some time off, and he’ll be forced to remember that she’s not just his friend, but also his boss, and her hands will be tied. He foresees spinning off the rails in the absence of something to occupy him. He imagines falling even further from grace; from the FBI’s golden boy to a barely exonerated murder accused, to an unreliable drug addict who’s more of a liability than an asset. 

So he tames the impulse and forces himself to look contrite. His head is throbbing now, and he needs to get her out of here as soon as possible. 

“You’re right. I’m just going through a lot. I’m not used to feeling so…adrift,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair and gazing at the floor to the left of where Garcia’s bright green shoes are planted. It works; he can feel her resolve crumble. The tension between them eases, and she approaches him like he’s a wounded animal.

“Oh, honey,” she whispers, pulling him into a tight hug, “we’re all here for you. We know how hard you must be struggling, and we want to help you, but you have to  _ let us,  _ okay?” She pulls back, looking him straight in the eyes. “No more trying to handle all of this crap on your own, mister.”

He nods like he knows he’s supposed to. 

“Oh, and, and! You have to go to the therapist. No arguments,” she tells him, “You know I’ll know if you don’t end up going.”

He does know. Garcia stays a little while longer, fussing over the mess that is his apartment and his nearly empty refrigerator. She makes him promise to replenish his supplies, before finally leaving with one last hug. 

He shuts the door behind her and lets out a sigh. He supposes he should feel bad about so coldly manipulating one of his closest friends, but these days he’s so full of shame anyway that he thinks he’s maxed himself out. Fulfilled his self-hatred quota for a lifetime. Or maybe he just can’t really tell what it is he feels bad for anymore.

He used to wonder if he wasn’t really himself. If Tobias Hankel had killed him and brought him back, except now there was more Tobias in him than there was Spencer. Then, when the marks on his arms weren’t visible and he could walk without much of a limp again and the white-hot brand in his mind screaming  _ ‘sinner’  _ had dulled to an orange glow, he realised he couldn’t possibly be Tobias. Tobias only cared about his drugs and his twisted sense of morality and his mission to judge and avenge. Spencer wasn’t like that. 

These days, though, he starts to think maybe that’s changed. Sure, maybe he isn’t Tobias. But he doubts he’s much of a Spencer anymore, either.

* * *

He thinks he’s doing pretty well. Handling the drug addiction. He isn’t just getting high every chance he can get and walking into work with telltale sunglasses and trembling hands. He plans it out. He rations out his supply. He also fully intends for it to be a temporary thing. 

In retrospect, that was remarkably stupid of him. 

It all comes to a head during a case in Denver. It involves, as it usually does, dead women, a frustratingly broad profile, and largely unhelpful local law enforcement. 

Spencer is standing in front of a corkboard, peering at a map of the town and meticulously tying a strand of red yarn between the crime scenes and the locations frequented by each of the victims, indicated by slightly rusty dull-green thumbtacks. JJ and Rossi are off in one of the interrogation rooms, speaking to the latest victim’s boyfriend. Luke and Tara are in the field, interviewing a bereaved mother. Across the table, Emily is on the phone with Garcia, poring over a case file. 

The door slams open and an officer walks in, carrying two Starbucks cups and wearing a wide, hopeful grin. Emily smiles kindly at him even though there’s a furrow between her eyebrows; this man hardly deserves to have their frustration with the case directed at him.

He quickly realises Officer Cole is either flirting with Emily or flirting with the Behavioural Analysis Unit, and Emily is patiently indulging him. Spencer ignores him for the most part, his mind drawn to a solitary green pin on the periphery that remains hitherto untethered to any other. He glares at it balefully, willing it to fit perfectly into the intricate pattern he’s identified. He pinches the bridge of his nose, mentally scanning the details of the crime scenes and case files. Still staring directly at the pin, he reaches blindly towards the table to grab the red yarn, and then promptly yelps in shock. His eyes jerk over to his dripping left forearm and then up at Officer Cole’s mouth hanging open in horror, trying to stutter out an apology but nothing comes out; he looks like he’s about to cry. The Starbucks cup lies innocuously on the floor, releasing a slow trickle of light brown coffee.

Spencer mumbles something along the lines of “it’s alright” while inspecting his arm. He unbuttons the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt, and after a cursory inspection, concludes that it’s nothing a little running water won’t fix. He gingerly pries the fabric away from his skin, confirming his theory that the skin is unblemished, if a little pink, and makes his way to the restroom. He’s distracted with reassuring Cole to think anything of the way Emily takes one look at his arm and then inspects his face with a strange intensity.

It isn’t until he’s in the room again, ten minutes later, with both his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, that it hits him. The air is distinctly chillier now, or maybe it’s Emily’s stare that sends a shiver down his spine. She looks disappointed and furious all at once, and this time he doesn’t have to fake the urge to avoid her eyes.  _ Of course she’d be the one to find out,  _ he thinks. But he supposes, if he’s sloppy enough to slip up so badly, he deserves whatever is coming. 

When she makes him book the first flight home and decides he needs to take another two weeks off, he scarcely puts up a fight. When she tells him about her conditions, he nods in resignation. If she listens to what she has to say, she will see how pathetic he really is, and maybe that will be worse. As of now, she only knows the bare bones of what happened to him over a decade ago: she knows of a kidnapping and a resurrection and PTSD, but she doesn’t know of the vials and the meetings and Gideon’s guilt; hopefully, she never will. As he walks out of her makeshift office, he feels the rift between them grow impossibly wider. 

* * *

The woman smiling cheerfully up at him and offering her assistance from behind the reception desk is unfamiliar. He’s been called a robot so many times he’s stopped counting, but right now he feels exactly like a machine that has come screeching to a halt when confronted with data beyond its knowledge. He stares at her, unable to move, as his mind torments him with all the things that could possibly have gone wrong. He’s faced one too many formidable adversaries to be able to shut off his profiler’s eye, and he scans her head to toe, looking for the slightest hint of deception. She doesn’t seem to be hiding anything but he could be wrong, he’s  _ been wrong,  _ and it nearly cost him  _ everything;  _ what if she can’t be trusted and this time his luck has well and truly run out, what if-

“Doctor Reid?”

The greeting jolts him away from his spiralling thoughts. It still takes him a second to come back to himself, and when he does, he notices his hands are clenched into fists. He’s standing stock still in the lobby of Bennington Sanitarium. The receptionist is staring back at him with a look somewhere between fear and concern, her hand twitching towards the landline on the desk. He realises he must look somewhat threatening; he isn’t used to having that effect on people. But, he supposes, that is the least of the changes the last fifteen years have wrought on him.

“Doctor Reid, are you alright?”

He forces his body to relax, joint by joint, giving the woman as genuine of a smile as he can muster, hoping it will set her at ease. It doesn’t seem to; he can’t quite bring himself to care. The concerned voice is a familiar one, and he turns around to greet his mother’s new caretaker. 

“Hi, Ruth. Sorry, I, uh—I had a rough flight,” he manages to say, running a hand through his hair, “how is she?”

Ruth always has a maternal air about her, and right now, she looks like she can see right through his flimsy excuse. She’s about to pry, he knows, and he suddenly feels claustrophobic. He needs to get away. 

“Actually, I’m going to get some coffee, I’m a little tired. I’ll come back in a little while.”

Ruth frowns. “Doctor Reid, have you been sleeping?”

“Just fine, thanks. We just had a big case.” The longer this conversation stretches on, the less air there is in his lungs. His own voice sounds far away, like he’s shouting to be heard over the sounds of waves crashing against unmoving rocks. 

“I see.”

“I’ll see you later,” he says, sidestepping her to get to the exit.

“Diana is having a bad day.” 

The words make him stop short, if only for a moment. 

“Ah.” A  _ bad day  _ means his mother doesn’t even know who he is. Trying to jog her memory would only confuse and agitate her. He would know. He’s tried. 

Ruth isn’t a woman who likes silence. “I’m sure she would still be happy to-“

He forces the muscles of his face to conjure up something resembling a smile in her direction. “No, that’s alright. I’ll just come back another time.”

With that, he pushes past her, taking long strides forward and not stopping until he’s hunched over and sucking in desperate lungfuls of the warm night air. He can taste the saturation somewhere in the back of his throat and it almost feels like a home he’s long since left behind. It was stupid to have thought that seeing his mom would give him answers to questions he doesn’t even know how to voice. It’s stupid to think there’s any comfort to be had anywhere _ ,  _ in this new life. 

Eventually, he catches his breath and straightens up, beginning to walk aimlessly. There are no stars to be seen above him, but this city could never be quite pitch dark. Vegas is all flashing lights and seductive mystery, and perhaps that’s why so many lost souls end up here. For him, it’s simply the hometown he loves, and so little of his life is recognisable these days that he clings to it like a drowning man. That’s probably why this is where he’s chosen to come the day before his mandatory leave is over. 

He doesn’t put much thought into where his feet are taking him, until he hears the familiar sounds of whirring machinery and celebratory shouts and sultry jazz music being crooned into a microphone. The air reeks of artifice, but he couldn’t care less. In a few minutes he’ll be raking in victory after victory until someone grows suspicious and he ends up getting kicked out of the casino. He’ll never admit it, but even the inevitable outcome gives him a thrill. This, at least, is a sure gamble. Here, he may be nameless and faceless, but here, he’s also a  _ winner. _

* * *

Spencer hesitates at the door. He knows he has no choice but to enter, but the thought of being back there is overwhelming. It fills him with a shame he knows he ought not to feel. He reaches into his jacket pocket and his fingers grip the bronze token he almost never leaves at home. The cool metal grounds him somewhat. 

Three times this fortnight, he has gotten as far as ten minutes into a meeting before being called away for work. Like the coward he is, he took the easy out and rushed to play Superman, when he’s really not even a half-decent Clark Kent. He is fraying at the edges. He knows himself well enough to be sure that wherever his current path is leading him, it isn’t anywhere good. So he takes a deep breath, and crosses the threshold. 

As he takes a seat among the quietly welcoming group of fractured souls, he turns off his phone. Whatever horrors the world outside might need his help to rectify, he knows that leaving this safe haven for them is not an option; not when it would mean allowing the tendril of ice in his chest to spread and consume him and render him permanently useless.

A shadow falls over his hunched form, and he looks up to catch the eye of an old friend. 

“John,” he remembers to say. 

“Spencer,” the man greets back warmly. He takes the seat next to him. “It’s been a while.”

He hears the real questions: Why did you stop coming to meetings? What happened that led you back here now? 

“I- I just figured I needed a reminder.”

The wan smile he directs at the older agent supplies the real answers: I was too proud to believe I needed to be here anymore. Now I’m here because I have no pride left. 

That seems to be enough, and John offers a nod and an encouraging smile before he settles back into his seat, turning his attention to the front of the room. There’s a man talking about a messy relapse after a divorce. A woman follows with a pleased announcement that she is two years sober, to which the room responds with enthusiastic applause. As more and more people offer up their stories, Spencer feels his nerves grow increasingly calmer, until he finally musters up the confidence to stand up and walk the short distance himself. 

“Hi,” he begins with a small wave, “My name is Spencer, and I’m an addict.”

When he says the word, his entire being sighs in realisation. His mind stretches to accommodate this new piece of previously unacknowledged information, hugging the jagged edges of sharp defensiveness and tired denial that adorn it. There’s an odd sense of calm that comes along with it. He knows now,  _ really  _ knows, and if Spencer Reid knows something, half the battle has been won.

* * *

Last time, he never even really slipped. He just held on to the vials like some kind of a sick lifeline. When the nightmares became too intense, he would grip them so hard he actually feared they would break. That was back when he still had a lot of things left to live for, though; a mother, a team, a  _ life  _ that he loved. Now, his mother doesn’t remember him. His team is fractured and each of them is scarred in myriad ways. And his life is more a tragic comedy than the heroic sagas his mother adores. Still, he tries. 

Time passes and things are more or less normal.

Emily no longer looks at him with suspicion. He wouldn’t go as far as to say she trusts him again, but she doesn’t  _ distrust  _ him. That’s more than he expected to get, at least. 

Garcia is still much nicer to him than he deserves; when she greets him in the morning with a batch of homemade cookies, he wonders, not for the first time, whether she truly doesn’t know what he’s been up to in his spare time. Garcia isn’t the best at keeping secrets, and he’s sure she would have let something slip by now. Rossi still invites him to extravagant dinner parties and he still goes to a few of them and the whole team is there, and it’s still fun and lighthearted and  _ easy.  _ It shouldn’t be this easy. 

The more he thinks about it, the more likely it seems that Emily has done him the enormous favour of keeping his secret. No one treats him differently—except JJ, the lengths of whose understanding and patience are tested a little more every time he says no to babysitting Henry; he can’t tell her he needs to be as far away from Henry as possible for the time being, so he makes up flimsy excuses that make the smile on her face look forced and painful. But otherwise, no one asks any pointed questions, and none of the higher-ups are watching him any more closely than usual. 

The thought chokes him up. The worst part is that there isn’t much he can do to show his gratitude besides say the words. Which he does, in the quiet of her office after everyone has gone home for the weekend, and tentatively reaches for a hug. She lets him embrace her, and the familiar scent of her shampoo makes some chunk of a wall inside him crumble. 

Apart from that, though, all he can do is just—live. There’s no way to make amends as soon as he wants to. The only way to thank Emily is to try not to be such a colossal disaster in the future. Some days, it seems like that’s a feat which is beyond him. Those days, he stays hunched over his desk in the bullpen into the wee hours of the morning, trying to hit that sweet-spot of mindless exhaustion that will have him dead asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

It’s on one such night, a little past midnight, that he’s startled by the sounds of approaching footsteps behind him. He swivels around in his chair and comes face to face with an impassive JJ. He didn’t know she was here. She’s carrying a pile of paperwork and her hair is just slightly disheveled, so he assumes she has been in the records section.

In the dim yellow light, she still looks angelic, and it feels like she holds the weight of his existence in her hands. He just stays perfectly still while she studies him. Neither of them says anything, until she finally seems to make a decision, pulling up a chair, sitting next to him, and silently getting to work. 

He stares at her for a few more seconds before returning to the file, and soon the only sounds are the scratching of pens on paper. It’s peaceful, this silence, and he takes it to mean he’s been given a little more time to figure things out. 

She still ends up leaving before he does. As she packs up her things, she shoots a few concerned glances his way. She spins on her heel and takes a step before pausing. Then there’s a small pressure on his shoulder as she whispers, “You’re allowed to be happy, Spencer. You know that, right?”

He keeps his eyes trained on the paperwork, but he raises his hand to squeeze hers. 

“I’m getting there, I think.”

The cement box is closing in on him. There’s cement in his mouth and Calvin Show is smirking at him and his hand is bleeding, dripping red rivulets of blood onto Nadie’s prone body. Someone is laughing in the distance, and Shaw and his goons join in until the sounds are drowned out by a scream, a desperate, long, agonising scream. 

He sits erect with the scream still in his mouth. The immediate sight of his lamplit room makes it fizzle out into shallow, shaky breaths. 

Despite himself, his gaze is drawn to his nightstand. He knows he threw the vials away. He knows there’s no temporary solace to be found. But he stares at it anyway. 

In a concerted effort to distract himself, he grabs his phone. There’s an overwhelming urge to talk to someone, and he tries to squash it down. The leaky faucet in his bathroom is especially loud.

_ Plop. Plop.  _ The familiar tension in his temples starts building, and he releases a frustrated groan. The phone in his hand is taunting him.

_ Plop. Plop. Plop.  _ He gives in and dials a number on reflex, pressing the phone up to his ear as he stands and paces wildly. 

“Reid?” The voice is rough with sleep but it’s also alert and so achingly familiar that all he can give in response is a slightly incredulous laugh. 

“You picked up,” he says. 

“Of course I picked up.” Silence. “Are you alright?”

Another laugh, though this one borders on hysterical. “Yeah. Yeah, Morgan. I’m alright.”

He knows it won’t work, even as he’s saying the words. The man on the other end is still sharp, and still knows him too well.

“I might be wrong, kid, but I don’t call up my best friend at two a.m. when I’m alright,” Morgan tells him gently, with a teasing smile in his voice. It sets him at ease. 

He chuckles. “I guess you’re right.”

The silence that follows is expectant, but patient. It makes him want to talk about everything and he knows this is why he has been avoiding Morgan so much; he knows how to get his guard down. He hasn’t really talked to Morgan since he showed up at Spencer's front door, his first night home after getting out of prison, with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder and a face that said no nonsense would be tolerated. Spencer isn’t ashamed to admit he broke down that night, but he is a bit reluctant to repeat the exercise. He knows it’s about to happen.

“I don’t think I’ve really been alright since—since prison,” he finally offers, with an audible swallow. 

“That’s to be expected, Reid.”

“I know.” He picks up the three-month token from his nightstand, and squeezes as tightly as he can. “I know, but lately…lately I’ve just been letting everyone down. I’m not…useful anymore.”

“Now that’s just not true, kid,” Morgan chides, uncharacteristically serious, “Listen to me. You went to  _ prison,  _ kid. Let that sink in. That’s not something that just goes away. It takes time, and patience, and  _ no one  _ is going to fault you for that.”

“Morgan, it’s-”

“I’m not done yet, genius,” he retorts, “and you need to understand that your worth isn’t determined by how useful you are in any given situation.”

Spencer snorts. “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what ‘worth’ means, Morgan.”

“No, it isn’t.” There isn’t an ounce of levity in the response, and it makes Spencer hold his breath in anticipation. “In this job, it’s easy to think that way. I get it. I’ve felt it too. More times than I can count. But you need to know and believe that you’re not just the job. You’re more than the job. You’re a  _ person.  _ And I think you forget that way too much, kid.”

The breath leaves him in one loud whoosh. He fumbles for words, but he doesn’t have any. 

“You mean something, Reid. And a lot of people love you for more than what you have to offer in a case. Get it?”

“Okay,” he whispers, because he knows Morgan will not let him get away with a non-answer or an evasion. The words have thrown him slightly off-balance, in a good way, so he files them away in his mind to retrieve and study and turn over later. He fiddles with the token as he clears his throat.

“I’m sorry I called so late.”

“You know you can call at any time. I’ve been getting too much sleep these days now that Hank isn’t a baby anymore.” His voice is always warm when he talks about his son, and he feels a sudden pang. He misses his best friend.

“It’s hard not having you around.”

“You know you can come over anytime. Hank and Savannah miss you too. And I need someone to annoy Savannah more than I do so she’ll cut me some slack.”

The banter is familiar and fond, and after so many years, he knows there’s never any malice in it. He’s always loved the straightforwardness and simplicity that Morgan wears like a badge of honour. 

“Yeah. I’d like that,” he replies, smiling. 

“Okay, good. Now go to sleep, Einstein.”

“Alright,” he laughs. “And hey, Morgan?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Thanks.”

“Any time.”

The call ends with a beep, and this final silence is tranquil. Armed with the knowledge that he truly is not alone, that he might actually survive this and be okay, it’s easier to sleep now. He may never be the same again. He most probably won’t. He may be more Tobias than Spencer some days and some days he may be neither, but it’s still not the terrible fate it once seemed. Maybe, he thinks just before he loses his train of thought, maybe he doesn’t have to be the most useful person in the room. Just for a while, that should be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to read your comments.  
> Also posted on tumblr at [@thatgeekwhotalks](https://thatgeekwhotalks.tumblr.com)


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